The Legend of Zelda: Shattered Blade
by Blizrun
Summary: The ancient evil known as Ganon has returned to claim the Triforce of Wisdom and the Kingdom of Hyrule. With the king dead and Princess Zelda a prisoner, Hyrule's hope rests in the hands of a young man from another country. But will he save Hyrule, or condemn it? An adaptation.


_In days yet to be, as blood turns on blood, the ancient evil shall return._

_The fields of Hyrule will burn and the mighty will be betrayed._

_The guiding light will scatter in the wind._

_Yet the Sacred Realm shall not abandon us._

_For the evil holds his own seed of destruction._

_And the blade that was shattered shall be reforged._

– _Hylian prophecy of the Shattered Blade_

The town of Kasuto sat upon a plain nestled between the mountains and vast sea. A long stretch of road led east, lazily gliding over small hills and down them, heading towards the Lone Bridge that connected it to the desert. Many other, smaller, roads, wide enough only for a single carriage, branched off from the town towards the farms and cottages that dotted the surrounding land. The tall stalks of wheat swayed listlessly in the evening breeze, the western sky already a deep purple, the sun having disappeared behind the mountains an hour ago.

Soft candle light flicked in many homes in the town. The residents, having already finished supper and the evening tea, settled down to rest. Most the children were already tucked into bed, fast asleep, bodies worn from the day's chores with those few having the pleasure of leisure time tired from play dates with their friends. The women, supper's dishes dried, gathered in needlework groups to mend old clothes and gossip. The men stoked their fires and smoked their pipes, eyelids half closed, their minds already dwelling on the tasks that needed to be done tomorrow.

Twilight came. The lights in the town went out, save for those carried by the night guards. Here and there, the occasional livestock could be heard baying (most were cows with udders that hadn't been fully milked). Night insects could be heard playing a merry melody, keeping the infants and toddlers asleep with their chorus. Stars shone brightly overhead, while a waxing moon hung low in the eastern sky.

From the east, they came, riders on horseback. Riding in a column, they covered half the length of Lone Bridge. To a man, they were outfitted the same. Plate armor covered them from the neck down to the knees. Steel-tipped leather riding boots holding firm to the stirrups kept the riders upon their horses. Close helms, their tipped visors pointing up for the travel, kept their heads and necks safe. Instead of pistols by their sides, each man had the single sword of a cuirassier. Any epaulets or banners that might have marked leadership or regiment were absent.

The riders descended upon the town, changing into two line formation, one rank behind the other, as the last of their number cleared the bridge. No militia to raise the alarm met the riders' advance. The horses tore at the earth beneath them, sending clumps of earth flying back. But these horses, bred for war, gave no sign of exhaustion. Closer and closer they came to the town, until they crested the final hill.

And then, they stopped.

The night returned to silence. No alert was sounded, nor did anyone come to meet them. The riders looked about, studying the lay of the land. Small conversations about where to meet should something go wrong were said among the leaders. Others checked and rechecked their equipment, ensuring that all would be right for the coming task.

A single rider trotted in front of the line, stopping after a few yards. His gaze was fixed skyward, to the constellation known as the Great Triangle. His mind, however, was clouded with by the plan for the night. So much depended on half-decayed fragments from ancient manuscripts being correctly interpreted. And even then, what was needed for it to be done was, in quite simple terms, a devil's task. Within his heart, he half-hoped that the sign would –

A dash of light streaked across the Great Triangle.

The rider's mind cleared and his grip on the reins tightened. With an increasing number, more shooting stars appeared within the Great Triangle, their path always starting at the top tip and ending towards the earth. That was it. This was the sign he had waited for. His right arm came up and closed the visor on his helmet. The rest of the riders did the same. They drew their swords as one, holding the point to the night sky.

Slowly, as if their arms were losing a fight against fatigue, their swords dropped, making a looping pattern before it reach the antapex. Without halting, the swords rose again, forming a new pattern, one with sharp turns. A small glow appeared on the point of the swords. The riders pointed their blades at the sleeping town. The small balls of lights left the tips, arching gracefully through the air before coming to a rest at different places within the town.

Where the lights touched instantly erupted into an inferno. Roofs of thatch and wood alike were consumed by the blazing fires, lighting fast and instantly. The masonry, though safe, had their interiors lighted by the fire, the balls of light passing effortlessly through the brick and mortar. Only metalwork was safe from the magic, and even then, it would be a short time before the heat started to melt bronze and iron.

The villagers came rushing out of their dwellings, half dressed in their night linens. Parents held their children tightly, running into the fields to escape the blaze. Some of the men, after ensuring their families' safety, ran back to fight the inferno. Empty buckets were hastily grabbed from the barns and stables. Lines formed at the wells as the men frantically fought to save their homes.

The riders split their numbers into two, one group heading into the fields after the women and children, swords gleaming in the moonlight. The others dashed into Kasuto, straight for the bucket line. The villagers in town saw the group heading for them and began frantically waving, hoping to get the riders' aid in extinguishing the fire. Instead, the riders crashed through the lines, swords slicing at the men. Their cries of surprise and pain were followed by shrieks as blood poured from their wounds. Their friends immediately dropped their buckets and dispersed, some heading into their burning homes, the rest desperately running away.

The riders in the field converged swiftly upon the villagers that had fled there. Unaware of the killing in the town, they too turned to the riders for aid. Again, shouts went up, but this time, it was the voices of women and children. Screams of terror and horror came from the people. The men that had stayed with their families now took flight with them, toward the nearest cottage.

Both groups of riders broke apart in smaller groups again, each one targeting a different group of people that had splintered off. More blood was spilled as the riders continued their grisly work. No sense of humanity or compassion could be seen behind their visors, not a single word of remorse or relish passed their lips. They were detached from the killing, and very, very methodical.

In Kasuto, two score of men assembled by the town hall. Held in their hands were fourteen-foot long pikes, the tips dulled and slightly rusted from being ill-maintained, but still deadly in the right hands. The militia, their numbers weakened from the attack formed into two ranks, the second offset behind the first. No indication of rank, either sergeant or corporal, could be seen on their bodies. Yet each man knew who was in charge.

The riders in town rallied at the sight of the militia. Their leader, the man who first sighted the falling stars, was among them. A slight curl of his lips played upon his features. These simple people, who had little comprehension of the kingdom beyond Lone Bridge, let alone of the greater world, were trying to play soldier. Let them try, he thought. Time and time again, he had seen militia breaks ranks at the first drawing of blood, their sergeants often the first to call retreat. These peasants would be no different.

Yet, they stood still, now lowering their pikes towards the riders. Very well, the Leader decided. If they wished for a fight, he would oblige them. He spurred his horse forward. The beast snorted, raised its front hooves into the air slightly before breaking into a charge. His men followed in suit, their swords held high and ready, blood dripping from the blades.

The militia did not budge from their position. Behind faces blackened by soot were hard eyes, bloodshot from the heat and smoke. Their muddied feet held firm on the earth. Grips tightened on the leather handles of their pikes as the riders rushed forward. The Leader saw his opponents stand unwavering. These men were different, somehow, more disciplined than the common militia trash. So much the better, he thought; he could salvage some sense of honor from this black night.

Spires of stone shot out of the ground around the militia. The riders and their steeds shouted as they fell forward onto the waiting tips of the rock and iron. Man and beast alike were skewered as the militia took their vengeance, flesh rending and blood staining the earth. The Leader sharply yanked on the reins of his horse, the animal coming to a scurrying halt. Magic. There was a magic user somewhere in this town.

Not all the riders were caught in the trap. Those towards the rear of the charge escaped the fate of their comrades, their rides rearing at the sudden earthen wall that rose before them. The Leader rallied his men and dispersed them. Some hid among Kasuto, others rode to their comrades on the fields to gather them for another attack.

The Leader searched through the town. Magic, such as its nature, required sight of the target area. The magic user had to be somewhere close by, within sight of the militia. His eyes darted everywhere. There was no way the sorcerer could have predicted exactly where the militia would have rallied. True, they could have set preassigned points, but with the town on fire and under attack, it would be near impossible to coordinate a response that rapidly and that effectively. The sorcerer would have to choose a place fast, one that would give him a view of most, if not all, the town.

There, in the corner of his eye, the Leader spotted it. The town church, its stone spire rising far above sat near the center of the settlement. The spire, with its hollow for the bell, was the perfect place for a sorcerer to cast his spells. The Leader swung his sword, his motions sharp, arms stopping at precise points. If a line were drawn at each place the point stopped, it would form a triangle inverted within a rectangle. It was a simple spell, taught to beginners for practice, but it would work well.

A sphere, smoky and whirling, gathered at the tip of the sword. After the spell was complete, the Leader continued moving his arms, gathering more strength and size to the sphere. After three such repetitions, he halted and released the sphere into the church. The sphere shot through the air and passed safely through the stone walls.

Almost immediately after, the entire building was engulfed in a cloud of smoke, so thick that one could not breathe or concentrate. The sorcerer would be unable to cast, for a moment, long enough for the riders to continue their attack.

The Leader rode his horse away from the church, into the fields where his men rallied. Upon arriving, he immediately sent a detachment to attack the militia again. The rest were sent to hunt down the remaining villagers. The Leader had no way of knowing if enough blood was already spilled to complete the spell requirements, but he had to make sure. He turned back towards the church, intent on hunting the sorcerer down.

The front doors, previously closed, were now wide open, so far back to indicate they would have been thrown open in haste. The Leader's suspicion seemed to have been correct. Dismounting from his horse, he peered at the ground closely. A fresh set of footprints led away from the church, far enough apart to suggest that the person had been running. The prints led towards a far end of the town, the end opposite to where he had his men had first charged.

The Sorcerer stood there, slightly bowed and still engulfed in fits of cough. He was dressed in tailored clothes, still of simple colors, but well fitted. He was obviously someone of importance in this town. Not unsurprising; he was, after all, a sorcerer. The man sensed the Leader's presence and turned towards him. The man was old, the lines of time etched into his face with patches of gray hair peeking underneath his cap.

"Who . . ." The Sorcerer was consumed by coughs for a moment. "Who are you?"

"That is none of your concern," the Leader said, his voice firm and deep. He saw the man's eyes size him up. The Leader was no young man, approaching his forties, but he still had a great deal of life in him. He strode towards the sorcerer.

"I don't expect you to understand," the Leader said, drawing his sword.

"But the destruction of this town and its people are needed for a higher cause."

The Sorcerer's only reply was the rapid movement of his hands. A flash of sparks, concentrated in a cone, sprayed out of the Sorcerer's hand, aimed at the Leader. Caught off guard, the Leader was hit in his chest, the metal plate taking the brunt of the attack. The sheer force behind it was enough to knock him on his back, momentarily stunning him.

Shaking off the attack, the Leader quickly got onto his feet. The Sorcerer was already gone, but his coughs made him easy to trace. The Leader gave pursuit, his movements more careful and deliberate now. To cast magic without the use of a physical focus required decades of hard training, and the Sorcerer was not old enough. The only way he could have cast that spell was if he was a born magi, one to whom magic came as easy and natural as breathing.

The Sorcerer had entered into a house that had, somehow, been spared the flames that were incinerating the rest of the town. The Leader peeked in through a window. The room looked empty from where he stood. He looked at the rest of the house. It was one story. The Sorcerer could only be in corner to the left of the doorway, or on the right side of the house.

Fast as his armor would let him, the Leader dashed in. Almost immediately, a spell was fired at him from the right side. Missing by mere inches, the Leader hooked around, trying to pin the Sorcerer in the corner of the building. Through the firelight, he saw the Sorcerer in the midst of casting another spell. The Leader charged him, sword ready to thrust forward with the killing blow. The Sorcerer was well-practiced in his craft, casting another spell directly at the Leader.

This one was more powerful than the one he had been hit with earlier. It knocked the Leader to the other side of the building. The force of the impact shook dust from the rafters. Shooting lances of pain radiated from the Leader's back. He collapsed, nearly falling onto his sword. His vision swam, the building seemingly splitting in two and dulling into a painter's mix, blobs of brown mixing with yellow and red. The soft steps of the Sorcerer's exit were almost undetectable to the Leader's ears.

He laid there. How long, the Leader could not tell. The first to come back was his eyesight, the twin images of the building coming back together. The colors focused, chairs and tables taking the place of dull swabs.

It was not perfect, however. The slightest light was overbearing, the warm glow of the fireplace having the appearance of a smith's forge. Though the Leader could make out distinct objects, they still appeared fuzzy around the edges. And he noticed a distinct ringing in his ears now, one that that was not present earlier.

With grim determination, the Leader forced himself back onto his feet. Pain wracked his every step, and his thoughts were clouded. His right hand tremblingly undid the straps that held his plates to his body. The steel clattered to the ground. Almost immediately, there was a tremendous relief from the pain; not all gone, but enough that he could move around faster. Next came his helmet, cast aside next to his armor.

Limping out the door, the Leader peered around. There was no sign of the Sorcerer. The flames had yet to recede, so it could not have been very long since he was attacked. He walked down the street, drawing his dagger instead of retrieving his sword. The tiny blade would serve him even better as a focus for his spells – smaller, lighter, and easier to move around. He would need the advantage when he next encountered the Sorcerer.

He peered around the corner of the street. No sign of anything or anyone. The Leader gritted his teeth. His men were still battling the militia. He had to get back to them. The Sorcerer remained a risk, but one that he was now better prepared to handle.

Heading back towards the town hall, the Leader saw his men still engaged in the battle. The militiamen were fewer now, at least by ten, but they had retreated into a narrow alleyway, one line turned around with its back to the other. The leader would have to give his men a verbal lashing when this was all over; in the heat of battle, they had turned to their swords instead of their brains, completely forgetting about the magic he had taught them all.

Whipping the dagger around, the Leader pointed his weapon at the ground beneath the militia. A wall shot up between the two lines, cutting them off from each other and leaving both without any means of retreat. The militia, their brows dripping with sweat and blood, turned around at the feeling of the earth rising. Their eyes widened as they realized the situation they were now in.

Almost immediately after, the wall shattered into harmless dust, blanketing the alley and the surrounding roads with a thick cloud. The Sorcerer, too, had returned to the aid of his townsmen. The leader started scanning, looking for the signs that indicated where the Sorcerer was hidden. He saw the slightest of movement in the shadows to the right, on the opposite side of the main road through Kasuto.

The Leader started to cast a spell, but halted. The Sorcerer was too skilled, and too many advantages to simply bring down through brute force. He would have to be trapped first, preferably in an area that limited his casting abilities. The Leader doubted that the latter could be found in this town, especially since the Sorcerer was a born magus.

He thought back to the map of the town he had studied for weeks prior to this night. There was the single main road that connected Kasuto to the Lone Bridge, with many other roads branching off that one. To the south of the town was the commons with its open land. The rest of the town was connected with the roads that came back to the main road. The Leader frowned. There were no dead ends that he could force the Sorcerer into.

The best course of action, the Leader decided, would be to create a dead end, then force the Sorcerer into it. Again, he went over the map of the town in his head. In the south-western section of the town there was a narrow alley that led straight into another one before opening onto the town commons. A barrier placed there, right after the turn into the second alley, could work. But the Leader would not be able to do it alone.

He looked at the battle. The militia had made good use of the dust cloud to cover the flight from the alley. His men were giving pursuit. Most were already gone, but there a few wounded stragglers that had needed to rest before giving chase. They would work perfectly.

"You men," the Leader said, walking up to them. Their helms turned towards him as they climbed to their feet.

"There is a sorcerer in this town. I want you to go to the south-western section of this town." The Leader turned and pointed in its direction.

"There you will find a narrow alley that opens onto the commons. I need you to block off that passage, right after where the alleyway bends. I will chase the sorcerer into your waiting swords. Any questions?" he asked.

His men looked at each other, and then said no. Without any further words, they left for the commons. The Leader watched after them for a moment before turning towards the shadows where he had seen the Sorcerer before. He would need to keep the Sorcerer in this section of Kasuto until his men completed their task.

Dagger in hand, the Leader cautiously walked towards the shadows where the Sorcerer had been moments ago, ready to cast a spell at a moment's notice. Flickering firelight from the dying town revealed nothing about where the Sorcerer had been or where he might have fled. Earth, however, through footprints in dirt, told the story of a man quickly running to the west.

Following the tracks, the Leader went into the town inn. The table where guests paid their fees and left their mark for a room had been knocked aside, the inkwell still leaking on the floor, the black pool still small. A quick check of the back side of the inn revealed an open door. The rental room door, too, was ajar, clothing scattered on the floor with a half-packed sack sitting on the bed.

Determined not to lose his prey, the Leader picked up his pace out the back door, following the footprints once again. He turned several corners to see the Sorcerer run into a house. The Leader took a moment to picture his place within the town, and where the Sorcerer was heading. A road leading north, towards one of the nearby cottages, was the most likely place for the Sorcerer to be heading. Turning on his heel, the Leader cut through the houses. He would get to the road first and surprise the Sorcerer.

The Leader was on the road for barely a heartbeat before the Sorcerer appeared, stumbling out one of the houses ahead. Yet that moment was all the Leader had needed. He finished casting a spell that sent the tiled roofing tumbling down in front of the Sorcerer. Coming to a startled halt, he whipped his head around, seeing the Leader in the midst of casting another spell. The Sorcerer ran back into the house he had come from.

Bringing the casting to a halt, the Leader ran past where the Sorcerer had gone to and into the very next house. He would not seek confrontation with the Sorcerer, not yet. Not until he had been funneled into the trap.

Through alleyways and houses, the Leader gave pursuit. The occasional simple spell kept the Sorcerer harried and hampered his ability to think about the ease of his escape, on how he was being prevented from taking routes leading out of town. The Leader kept the pressure on, gradually forcing the Sorcerer into his trap.

And when it was sprung, it was to great effect. The Sorcerer turned the corner of the alleyway and into the waiting swords of the dark riders. He barely avoided being skewered, reflexively jumping backward. The Sorcerer's hands, shaking with adrenaline, came up to cast a spell. Before he could finish it, the Leader stabbed him in the sides with his dagger, the blade piercing his kidneys. With a strangled cry, the Sorcerer collapsed, his blood rapidly pooling upon the cobblestones.

As he fell, the Sorcerer's cap came off, revealing his ears, which had been hidden. They were not rounded, like most people. They were longer, coming to a tapered point. At the sight of them, the Leader dropped his dagger. He did not think that this might happen. But he should have. He was a born magus. His clothing marked him as someone important. The signs were there, but in the rush of battle, the Leader ignored them.

The Leader bowed his head as the Sorcerer took his last strangled breaths. He did not want this. There were so few Hylians left; the death of even one was a tragedy. Yet, like this black night's task, it could not be avoided. Voice muted, the Leader took his men back into the center of Kasuto. There he met with rest of his soldiers.

They had finished off the last of the militia and stood ready to track down the rest of the town's denizens. But the Leader instead ordered them all to mount their horses and ride off; there had been enough killing done this night for his tastes.

Kasuto Town burned all night. When the fires died, nothing remained except charred stones and blackened wood walls, haunting whispers rising from the ashes. And in the heavens above, the top star of the Great Triangle glowed faint red.

The rider galloped at a brisk pace down the dirt road, fresh mud from yesterday's rain scattering up and behind with each step his horse took, staining his boots. His grip upon the reins was firm without being overbearing. The horse, save for its mud-caked belly, was freshly groomed. Its muscles spoke of many long days doing training exercises with the rider. The rider wore a single breastplate strapped to his chest, the helmet and its visor discarded for today's drill. His clothing underneath was simple – leather to keep his armor from causing excessive discomfort, wool shirt underneath to keep him warm and linen undergarments to keep his skin from itching from the shirt.

A long shadow cast westward, away from the rising sun, which still hung low in the sky. The rider always, without fail, rose before the sun to train with his horse. And the day held many promises. The seasonal rains had abated, leaving a crystalline sky with a few scattered wisps of clouds. The grasslands of Catalia were lush and vibrant with the sounds of insects. The fields were beginning to bloom with the yearly crops, the shoots standing tall and proud.

His morning ride nearing its end, the rider steered his horse towards the main roads of Catalia Castle. The royal standard fluttered high in the morning breeze, its rich purple and red colors behind the stylization of a lion holding a sword. Next to the royal flag flew the banner of the Grand Estate, the legislative body that ruled the Kingdom of Catalia. The color of their flag was a simple blue, but the seal of the Grand Estate, with its division representing the Common Estates and the Lord Estates, stood proudly against the background.

The city that occupied the lands surrounding Catalia Castle was already a busy sight, even with the clocks showing that it was not even six o' clock yet. Store owners had their workers out taking care of the first of their daily tasks. Specialty shops were hard at work preparing their goods for sale, the master teaching his craft to his journeymen while the apprentices took care of the storefronts. The Livery Avenue Bakery, in particular, already had a line outside, the patrons hungrily pining after the smells that wafted from the doors.

The gate guards of Catalia Castle waved at the rider as he approached. The rider returned the friendly gesture, heading towards the stable. The castle, in contrast to the city outside, was still relatively quiet. The king and queen were getting on in their years and, since the Grand Estates handled most of the kingdom's administration, liked to sleep late. Aside from the patrols, the castle and its grounds were empty.

As he approached the stable, one of the boys who worked there spotted the approaching rider and called to him.

"Good morning, Link!" he shouted. "Enjoy your ride?" Link rode up to the boy and dismounted.

"As always, Taggart," Link said, handing the reins over to him. "The wheat and barley look good this year. So long as summer is kind to us, we should have a great harvest." Link patted the flank of his horse as Taggart began to lead her away.

"I just hope that my mother's pumpkins can avoid the rot this year," Taggart said, walking towards the washing stall. "Any special care for Epona?"

"Oh, the usual will be fine," Link replied, taking his breastplate off. "Just make sure she gets a fresh bale of hay in her stall; it stunk this morning."

With a nod and a wave, Taggart took Epona to be cleaned. Link walked off, following the servants' path back towards his room. It was quicker than taking the normal path and it avoided the risk of him getting spotted by Elizabeth, one of girls who worked in the kitchen. There was nothing particularly wrong with her, other than the fact that she was absolutely obsessed with Link and he, quite honestly, had no interest in the woman.

Reaching his room safe and unmolested, Link dumped his armor in the corner for later cleaning and then changed his clothes. The first to come on was his brown linen pants and long-sleeved shirt, the smoothness of the fabric refreshing against his skin. A simple green wool doublet with leather lace down the front was next. Link could not wait until his completed his training, then he would be able to afford cotton cloth, and not have to worry about wool itching him anymore. Last was an old pair of well-worn knee-high leather boots, the soles freshly replaced.

Walking over to the bowl he used as a sink, Link poured water out of the pitcher that he had brought to him every day by the servants and washed his face and hair. The water cascaded down from the long brown locks that adorned his head. He scrubbed his face and hair with a nearby towel, taking care to get the bits of sweat and dirt that always gathered behind his ears. Tossing the towel to the side, Link glanced up at the mirror. His blue eyes caught his hair out of place from where he kept it. He quickly fixed it, keeping his hidden shame from sight.

Washed and dressed, Link left his room and headed to the dining area he shared with the rest of the squires to the Royal Knights of Catalia. The smells of the kitchen wafted through his nose and he reflexively inhaled deeply, lips slightly curling at the scent of the morning rolls fresh out of the oven. Inside the dining area, Link found his group of friends and fellow squires gathered at their usual spot, absorbed in their conversation while they waited for breakfast to be served.

"Good morning, everyone!" Link exclaimed, sliding onto the end of the bench.

"Ah, good morning, Link," said Flynn. Flynn was the most senior of their group, two years older than Link's fourteen. Flynn had a sharp mind, and even sharper tongue that would get him in trouble had he not learned to sheathe it when in proper company.

"Have you heard the news?" Flynn asked as Link reached for an apple from the fruit bowl in the center of the table.

"No," Link replied, pausing only a moment before he bit into the apple. He chewed silently, slowly, sitting straight up on the stool, his free hand resting on his leg, exactly like he had been trained to do.

"There was a massacre in Hyrule. An entire town killed off by a group of riders before they burned it to the ground. People living in nearby villages have all fled the area. They say that dark magic was involved. Already, there are rumors of the dead haunting the ruins."

Link looked at Flynn intently, eating his apple without pause. As soon as Flynn finished, Link remained silent, still chewing.

"Well," Link said after a moment, swallowing. "My heart and prayers go out to those poor people and their families. I hope the Heavens soothe their souls and guide the spirits of the dead to their rightful resting place.

"As for those riders," Link continued with a slight shrug. "I am certain that the Royal Hyrulean Army will catch them. And should they ever need help, I'm willing to go over and give those bastards a thorough thrashing."

Link's fellows all nodded in agreement. Flynn nodded too, those his eyes remained fixed on Link. The young man had said his part, and said it well. Exactly as he was trained to do. Exactly as he was supposed to say. Whether those words had any real emotion behind them was left unspoken.

Any further discussion was halted by the arrival of servants carrying the squires' breakfasts. Empty stomachs churned at the smell of freshly cooked eggs, rolls and ham. The boys looked over their plates with eager eyes and wet appetites.

"Hey, Link," one of them said, pointing at his tray. "How come you have Old Lady Graham's blueberry icing on your rolls?"

Link looked down at his plate. He had noticed the frosting on his rolls as soon as the plate was set before him. The icing was, as Old Lady Graham said, a family recipe that went back to the dawn of time. All that was known for certain was that she used mashed up blueberries as the main ingredient.

With furrowed brows, Link glanced up from his plate and towards the kitchen. Peeking out the door was Elizabeth. She smiled at Link and waved her fingers at him. Dumbfounded, Link timidly waved back.

"You're never going to get rid of her," Flynn said, smirk on his face. "Face it; you may as well just go to her father to hash out the dowry. And with a wallet like yours, you'd better hurry before some other guy offers her family more than two green rupees."

"Oh, good one, Flynn," Link dryly said. "My sides are splitting." Sighing, he picked up one of the rolls and took a bite. He may not like Elizabeth, but he was not about to pass up Old Lady Graham's icing. He idly wondered if he could convince her to try it with strawberries at some point.

Later, after their bellies had been filled, each squire reported to his knight for the day's task. Link hoped that he would have the chance to try the new pistols that his knight, Sir Lionel, had acquired, but it would not be.

Today was more drilling and training with the sword and shield, followed by long range archery grouping and then studying proper pike and musket formations. Only the latter was of any interest to Link. Ever since people figured out how to stabilize bomb flowers and grind them into gunpowder, archery and shield use had steadily fallen out of use. As for swords, Link had already proven himself a master of the blade, so he thought the practice was a waste of time.

And yet, Link never said a word about any of it to Sir Lionel. Link remembered how much he had to beg and plead, the countless hours and sleepless nights spent digging through family records, in order to even be accepted as a page. The Catalian Army had little need of new captains, much less ones that came from the royal knights. Sir Lionel, however, was willing to take Link on, so the boy did not complain.

". . . and what is the primary lesson learned from the Battle of Peddler's Foot?" Sir Lionel asked.

"That proper use of terrain can compensate for lack of numbers, as evident when local militia were able to hold against Lord Blackadder's uphill horseback charge over muddy ground, despite being outnumbered three-to-one," Link replied.

The sun was now well on its way towards the horizon. Link was finished with the physical aspect of his training and was now studying past battles. Before him was a modeling table with rocks, twigs, string, bits of grass and other such small things used to represent a battlefield.

Standing beside Link, Sir Lionel pointed out the various aspects he was teaching Link. Sir Lionel was a stout fifty-three-year-old royal knight and a colonel in the Catalian Army. His clothing right now was rather simple, more fitted for the training that he was doing with Link. Sir Lionel's hair, thinning with age and showing the first signs of graying, could be favorably described as a mix of muddy red earth and fresh straw. And though his muscles had begun to slacken, his blue eyes were just as sharp as his mind.

Sir Lionel placed his pointing stick down against the modeling table. Taking a deep breath, he stretched his arms back, slightly wincing at the popping, grinding noise his shoulders made.

"I think that's enough for today, Link," he said, letting his arms fall back to his sides.

"I have a task for you." Link's ears perked. He thought he was through doing his knight's tasking a year ago, after he officially became a squire.

"I was supposed to depart for the colonies to inspect my plantations next month, but His Majesty has called an emergency war council after the news we heard from Hyrule," Sir Lionel explained, walking with Link back toward the castle.

"I want you to go in my place. I have a letter already written and signed giving you authority over my caretakers there."

Link was stunned. He had never been to the colonies before. His older brother had gone over there as a settler, taking his wife and their children. That was years ago, when Link still lived with his parents and other siblings.

"I would be honored, my lord," Link replied.

"Good. You depart in the morning. Sir Miles is sending Flynn to inspect his property as well, so you'll be traveling together," Sir Lionel said.

Link bit his tongue. It was not that he did not like Flynn. Far from it; Flynn was a good friend and Link looked forward to fighting with him. But Flynn always felt like he had to be in charge of everything, regardless if he was good at it or not. Link expected that they would get lost as soon as they left Catalia, as Flynn could not navigate with a map to save his life.

Early the next morning, Link met Flynn at the stables. Taggart was there, as always, with their horses ready for them. Link wore his same green garb from the previous day, though now he had a similarly colored nightcap with a dull yellow fringe sewn on, pulled down tight to cover his shame. Strapped to his back was his targe shield. Like all the squires, it was made of oak planks nailed together with the front covered by leather. Link would only obtain a personalized shield after he was knighted.

Flynn conducted himself more fashionably than Link. He wore a mandelion over his doublet; both were blue, though the former was a lighter shade. He wore a flat cap with an eagle feather sticking out the left side. His pants and shirt were like Link's, though white instead of brown. He too had a targe shield strapped onto his back, though he also carried a shortsword on his left hip.

"There you are, Link," Flynn said, brushing some cheese crumbs out of his beard. "I was starting to think you overslept."

Link shot Flynn a look as he tied his bags to Epona's saddle.

"What do you take me for, Flynn, a squire? Elizabeth spotted me on my way down. I only managed to get away after one of the head maids distracted her."

Flynn chuckled as he mounted his horse, Catherine. As they both paused to put their riding gloves on, Flynn noticed that he did not have his shortsword with him.

"Not a squire, Link?" Flynn said, nodding towards his companion. "Then where is your sword?"

"Leaving it here," Link replied, gripping the reins. "It's not as if we're going to war."


End file.
